


Hellhole Out Of Commission

by BridgeToTheSky, MysticalMistress (BridgeToTheSky)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied mental illness, Love, Romance, Totally angstfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5601463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BridgeToTheSky/pseuds/BridgeToTheSky, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BridgeToTheSky/pseuds/MysticalMistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one told him that demons don’t take breaks, they don’t get bored with you, and they don’t take sick days.</p><p>And Sirius really hopes you don’t think he doesn’t love you. That’s not what this is about. That’s not what this is about at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hellhole Out Of Commission

**Author's Note:**

> I've sort of had a collection of Sirius fics in my head that I really can't sort out, and I hope by doing this it will help unclog my mind just a bit. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy~

There are ghosts everywhere; on the stairs, the tables, the chairs, against the walls, in the walls —

 

You freeze, gawking at the dent in the wall by the staircase and the man who was holding his left hand in his right, who was the culprit.

 

“ _Sirius_ …”

 

There is a slow, agonizing realization that the bang you had heard seconds ago and had jumped up, wand at the ready, to investigate was caused by Sirius himself.

 

He does not answer you immediately. He is lurched over, clutching his fist and what you know without seeing to be bloodied knuckles. His breathing is shallow, and another realization — he must have pounded the wall with all his might, robbing him of his breath.

 

The dent is an imperfect circle in the old paint, now caved in and cracked. It has made an ugly wallpaper even uglier and more archaic-looking.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sirius says seconds later, still panting. “I — thought I saw something, is all.”

 

Not a lie, you can tell, but not the entire truth. You don’t pry — you make up your own assumptions — and ask, “Do you need balm?”

 

Sirius nods. “Yeah, that would be nice …”

 

His eyes are light despite the lingering agony in his face, and you are sure he is happy that you did not decide to put him on the spot for his odd behavior.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure it would be,” You say. “Punching _walls_. Maybe you need something for the hangover you so obviously have, as well?”

 

A chuckle. Extra points; you have made him laugh, stolen the moment of its disturbed solemnity.

 

But jokes have nothing to do with what has been roused inside you. What was wrong with him and what could you do?

 

V

 

Vivid memory is a curse, Sirius finds.

 

Sometimes he turns down a hallway and can remember doing exactly the same at age fourteen, furious and angry. He can hear his mother’s voice, just as insanely enraged, yelling up at him and the slamming of doors and the uncomfortable silence that Sirius knows could be broken at any second and continued with more fighting.

 

Fighting, fighting, **_fighting_**. It’s the only thing the Blacks know how to do definitely, and, Sirius feels, the only thing they truly excel at.

 

He remembers the how _stunned_ he was at James' place. Fleamont and Euphemina ... The quiet that came not from controlled silence but from contentment of those that resided there. He would wait for chaos that never came, for signs of entropy that never came. So loving …

 

He wishes he could give you better than this hellhole.

 

Grimmauld Place reflects all it has ever stood for; it looks like a hellhole because it _is_ one, or _was_ , a hellhole out of commission.

 

He doesn’t explain when he gasps awake, trembling in silence, trying to grasp reality and realize that the impact of his back against a wall is not real, but the result of a dream so shocking to his system that it wakes him. Though … he feels his back against the mattress numbing.

 

It is a sign of weakness; it makes him look too vulnerable and pitiful and sad but he cannot help himself; Sirius buries his head in your shoulder and tries to soak in your closeness.

 

You can’t know just how much he needs you, just how much help he needs.

 

~~You don’t know. But you’re beginning to.~~

 

V

 

“You can tell me anything, you know. Anything at all.”

 

And you mean it. So many times someone says that but doesn’t mean it, doesn’t stop to understand the broadness of a sentence like that. But you mean it. You mean it with all your bones, all your heart and soul, you mean it. You want to know Sirius. You want to unravel him and run your fingers against the pages of his soul and hold what you learn close and private.

 

But —

 

“Of course I do, love,” Sirius says softly, planting a kiss against your forehead.

 

Even worst than angst is his nonchalance, his passing.

 

Either he doesn’t believe you, or he does and simply does not want to play that game.

 

Or both.

 

V

 

He doesn’t want to talk, he wants them gone. He wants it all gone — the memories and the sadness and the relatives, the sickness and the dreams. He doesn’t want to relive them, he wants them banished. He doesn’t want to think about them anymore.

 

He tries his best to ignore the sadness that lingers in your eyes whenever he meets your solemn and raises you a joke or a chuckle or a “yes, dear.”

 

No one told him that demons don’t take breaks, they don’t get bored with you, and they don’t take sick days.

 

And Sirius really hopes you don’t think he doesn’t love you. That’s not what this is about. _That’s not what this is about at **all** . _

 

V

 

He’s so much better at listening, so much better at hearing others out, that he just … he just doesn’t know how to … have someone do that for _him_.

 

He listened to you when your world had fallen in on itself and it had brought you to him, had listened to Harry when he had needed to, had let you cry on his shoulder both literally and figuratively so many times, and would gladly do it again.

 

But … _him_?

 

He doesn’t know if he can …

 

V

 

“Had enough, have you?”

 

You turn to the door, where Sirius hands by the threshold, avoiding your gaze.

 

You tilt your head in confusion, settling back on your feet after being on your tip toes — when it clicks; your hands had touched the suitcase.

 

“I’m not leaving.”

 

Sirius looks at you finally, and he doesn’t look unconvinced.

 

“Right,” he nods. “Of course … I just thought … well, who’d want to stay here in this mess? You’d have to be mad. Just thought you’d finally had enough, is all.”

 

Your face is too soft, too understanding, and Sirius huffs and looks away again, hands in his pockets, like the seventeen year-old he will be forever. You come over to him, footsteps soft, and embrace him, hands soothing his back.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” You whisper, then a kiss on his aftershaved cheek.

 

He doesn’t — _can’t,_ really — say anything. The wire around his heart has loosened and he can breathe again, but he does entwine his fingers with yours.

 

 _Thank you,_ he almost says.

 

V

 

The others go. They always do. Order business, school, family disarray, what have you. But you … you stay. You’re his. You stay and help him cast out the dark, help him rebuild Grimmauld Place in his vision. And when he makes you laugh, it gives him euphoria akin to indulging in an addiction, and he very much wants to run off with you and forget everything.

 

Absolutely everything.

 

V

 

“ _I love you_ …”

 

Sirius says it and means it. In his defense, he’s a tad overwhelmed, what with your body surrounding him and your foot against his calf as he’s thrusting, your breath against his ear, whispering sweet-nothings. Everything is warm around him when its so otherwise cold and aching and the three words simply slip out.

 

And he’s hoping you won’t say anything at all — maybe you like him, maybe you like him enough to do this, but maybe it doesn’t all equate to that, and the inequality would destroy him — but you do, and it soothes him like nothing else.

 

“I love you, too … _my_ Sirius …”

 

Any nightmare, any anger and ache has no chance in that moment, no leverage as Sirius buries himself inside you, and wishes there were some way for the final barriers between you and him that make up you and him to disappear forever. He could tell you anything, all of his anger, the constant, incessant frustration that boils up inside him always, and he wouldn’t regret it then. He smooths himself into your hair instead, whispering it one more time before resting against you.

 

V

 

Maybe … maybe just this once. Test the waters, see what it feels like.

 

Your gaze is so intense and earnest. Your hand is over his, grasping.

 

“Walburga and Orion and … and Regulus, and all of them …”

 

Sirius feels his voice cracking under the strain of his endeavor, and almost backs out before you squeeze his hand again.

 

He breathes, smiles at you in a way that makes smiles quite tragic, and says, “They … weren’t the best.”

 

It’s not a lot, but it is something.

 

All you were asking for was something.

 

And it is enough.


End file.
